The bar curves out from the wall, forming a centerpiece to the room. At one end there is a large jug of flowers, scarlet snapdragons, purple zinnias, great white peonies with blooms the size of saucers, fronds of lacy gypsophila, dusky-pink poppies, long-stemmed yellow daisies. All along the bar are high wooden stools, many of them occupied. The café owner stands behind the bar, rinsing glasses under a tap. He is a broadchested man with a shock of black hair, and wears a greasesmeared white apron round his waist. Behind him there are shelves stacked with bottles, packets of cigarettes, jars of tobacco, plates. A waiter weaves among the tables, his tray held high above his head. Everywhere is the sound of eager, animated conversation.

Thoby sits with his back pressed against the window. His thick hair flops over his forehead. He has his arms folded across his chest and surveys the scene before him with evident delight. The waiter appears and sets a basket of bread and a carafe of red wine down on our table. Clive, who has been entertaining us with an account of his attempts to consult a government archive, stops talking and reaches for a piece of bread. He takes a bite and chews it thoughtfully.

“What is it about French bread?” He holds the slice up as if it is an object of veneration. “How is it that something so ordinary can taste so delicious when eaten in convivial surroundings?” He beams at us, a broad conspiratorial grin. His skin is almost white against the rich auburn of his hair.

“There isn’t even any butter!” Thoby’s quip is pounced on by Clive as an opportunity to expound on the iniquities of English habit. We all laugh at the wit and agility of his sermon. While he is talking our soup arrives. I study its rich, dark color. I detect parsley, onion, fresh chives. I eat hungrily. When I look up I see that you have pushed your soup to one side. I sense your dislike of the unfamiliar food, your disgust at the stains on the tablecloth, the sudden, raucous bursts of laughter that erupt from the crowded tables. You are not enjoying yourself, your eyes signal, and you want me to share your discomfort. I look at Clive, at Thoby, at the rapid gesticulations of a man telling jokes at the bar, and decide to ignore you.

A woman enters the café, carrying roses. She nods to the owner and crosses to our table. She has seen we are foreigners and assumes, no doubt, we are easy prey. She sidles up to Clive. She has a shawl wound round her shoulders embroidered with exotic flowers and birds. She leans against Clive and lets her hand caress his cheek. He laughs at the liberty.